


heaven's disappointment

by belladonna_ink



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 'Some Days', Angst, But he doesn't know how to show it, Emotions, Eventual Fluff, Fluff, Idk how to fix it, M/M, Mycroft is a Sociopath, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Somebody's Watching - Freeform, caring is not an advantage, takeout, this is a chaptered work but it keeps showing up as one chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 23:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21005816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belladonna_ink/pseuds/belladonna_ink
Summary: "“They all care so much,” he once said. He wasn’t sure how to approach this. His cigarette hung loosely between his fingers. “Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”He didn’t mean ‘us’. Mycroft picked up on it. His eyes flickered over to Sherlock.“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”"Sherlock is lonely some days. Some days become most days very easily.





	heaven's disappointment

He was lonely most of the time. A little bit broken, if you asked him. Just a little too much.

Sometimes he would stare at the ceiling, trying to read the cracks like a book. And yet they kept smudging. They would blur and become illegible, and although he told himself he just needed glasses, he knew that wasn’t the case. His vision was perfectly fine. But he squinted so hard at it, trying to find anything. Anything that said that his time spent inspecting the damn ceiling was worth it. It wasn’t.

He knew things. Just not all the important things. John always found pieces in the most obvious places, like FaceBook or with his phone camera or with a diary. Sherlock wished he knew how to see the big picture some days.

Some days was quickly becoming most days, and before he could realize it, it was nearly every day. And he was still losing sight of the cracks in the ceiling and his own thoughts. It was always the devil in the details.

He didn’t like religions that much, honestly, but the metaphors that a belief could inspire were to be admired. A temptation of knowledge, falling from heaven on Earth, angels and devils, an omniscient power presiding over life itself, the creation of the universe, the devil? It was too much to ignore for the sake of opinions.

Most days Sherlock felt as if he was the snake tempting someone to answers, wisdom, and some days he felt he was Eve, desperate. Maybe for a higher purpose, maybe for the only advantage that life could offer; knowledge. Some days very easily became every day. In his little made-up paradise, there was no such thing as the dreadful peace his life was becoming. The weight on his chest that suffocated him was lifted, and he could believe that his emotions were more important. He could afford to care in utopia. That was what took him into drugs. An excuse to act on feelings, even if he knew it wouldn’t last. A temporary haven of sorts. He knew it wasn’t real. He knew a lot of things.

Some days he wanted drugs to feel numb of what he knew. Too many things. They danced across everything he saw, yelling in his face and screaming that _he didn’t know enough, that he should be more than this, with no biases and emotions and unpredictable outcomes and he should already be aware of everything, always two steps ahead, never behind the curve, there was no room for weakness in a world where one expects to face pain. Because not knowing enough meant pain and hurt and nononononono, he should never have to face what he doesn’t expect, he needs to know, he needs to. Caring was not an advantage, always a weakness. Always hurting everyone he knew, he couldn’t do that._ And now he was using someone else’s words again to replace his own. His own brother’s. Mycroft knew things, oh, he knew so many things, dangerous things and horrible things and lovely things and ugly things, uglier than his own mind could imagine, but he didn’t know how to feel. The most dangerous thing of them all.

It was ironic, wasn’t it? Despite their parents being actively involved in raising Sherlock, it was Mycroft that really shaped him. Sherlock loathed that. Mycroft was the person who taught him how to interact with others… Or rather, how not to. Mycroft was a sociopath. And he taught a young Sherlock his own mentality, grilling into an overly expressive child that emotions wouldn’t help him. That they weren’t important. Sherlock didn’t know which of his thoughts were his own and which were stained into him.

“They all care so much,” he once said. He wasn’t sure how to approach this. His cigarette hung loosely between his fingers. “Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?”

He didn’t mean ‘us’. Mycroft picked up on it. His eyes flickered over to Sherlock.

“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

And Sherlock was aware. Caring was not really something that helped anyone, in the long run, was it? But what he didn’t believe was that caring was a weakness.

Sherlock could care. He could care so much, too much, but he was at a loss as to whether or not he cared a normal amount. Did it matter? He couldn’t exactly say to John _it hurts my chest when you leave, is that normal? It feels like someone took a cheese grater to my heart and it’s physical pain, do I have a psychosomatic ache? You’re a doctor, you should know, right? My heart hurts when you’re gone and my lungs are being squeezed when you’re next to me and adrenaline doesn’t normally do these things to my mind, and my head hurts when I’m alone, and I’m alone some days but some days are terrible days. Some days have taken up all my time, and I’m still sitting on the sofa but I’m thinking too much again and my organs have run a marathon without my body. Is this normal? Is there something wrong with me?_

_What’s **wrong** with me?_

How does one express their emotions when they can’t put them into safe words to speak? Words that were acceptable?

He had the television on, but he wasn’t following whatever was happening, having abandoned it in favor of his own mind... palace? It wasn’t very luxurious to be stuck in a palace, regardless of the decor. Sherlock averted his view from the telly in favor of examining the flat. John was at the table and eating dinner, sitting with a full plate across from him. Sherlock wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t hungry some days.

He stretched his legs out, still sitting, breathing as steady as he could manage. It was so cold today. He hadn’t noticed.

“Do you want it?” Sherlock jumped. John gestured towards the probably cold food with his fork. Sherlock’s eyes traced the table. Take-out. Familiar. Good.

“Sure.”

And they ate.

And they stayed unaware of the camera in the corner, recording every bite.

They watched.

They waited.

They were patient.


End file.
